


it does not do to dwell on dreams

by TolkienGirl



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feelings, Gen, Just Friendship, Nightmares, PTSD, Peter and El are the parents Neal never had, paralleling my themes from prior fic, slight undertones of suicidal thoughts, spoilers up to 2x06 "In the Red", this is not slash, yes the title quote is J.K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Peter wonders if Neal only smiles when he lies. (Set early Season 2, after the plane crash.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it does not do to dwell on dreams

“How was he?” El asks, voice soft with sympathy, and Peter has to swallow down a lump in his throat before he can answer.

He doesn’t want to tell her about the stale metallic smell of the prison. He doesn’t want to tell her how Neal, in his orange jumpsuit, is stripped of his armor.

Armor, for Neal, is a vintage tailored suit and a wide smile.

Armor can be heavy.  But sometimes, the truth is heavier.

“He’s still in shock,” Peter answers, as though that isn’t obvious, as though Neal’s life isn’t over, all over again.

That night he holds El a little tighter. He imagines freedom, wind off the asphalt.

A girl who might have lived if she’d stepped off the plane, if she’d run.

_If only she had run._

 

Neal shows up in his suit and his smile. The suit’s no worse for wear. The smile’s a little frayed at the edges, a little sharp in the eyes. Peter makes jokes and jibes, because he knows it can only help.

What he wants—and it surprises him—is to put his arms around Neal, hold him like the son he and El have always wanted.

But Neal’s a tightrope walker. There’s no room for two on the wire.

Peter can only catch him if he falls.

(Peter tried to.)

 

They have Neal for dinner, two nights after he’s out of jail, because Elizabeth is a natural at knowing what and what not to say. She pours the wine and he praises her cooking and Peter doesn’t know why Neal doesn’t get to have what they have.

Neal’s been who he is too long for it to all be his own fault.

“I missed you,” Elizabeth says, and she takes Neal’s hand. Peter sees again, though he doesn’t want to, that Neal’s hand is shaking.

“Thank you,” says Neal. His face is perfectly serious. Sometimes, Peter wonders if Neal only smiles when he lies.

They’re on a stakeout, weeks after months, and Peter clears his throat in a little pause between Neal’s complaints of deviled ham and general ennui.

“You know,” says Peter, “You can always talk to me. About—all of it. Always.”

There’s a beat of silence. He can’t even hear Neal breathing.

Then, very quietly, Neal says, “Maybe when the nightmares stop.”

Peter rolls the binoculars from hand to hand. Peter doesn’t know what to say. “I—”

“Thank you,” Neal interrupts, before he can finish.

Peter swallows hard. Damn lumps in his throat. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Neal shifts, starts, points. “There’s our guy.”

They snap into action, they catch their bad guy, and Peter drives home in the dark. That night, he dreams that he lets Neal go, and Neal says nothing before he gets on the plane.

_Neal gets on the plane._

A flash of light and a thunder of noise, and Peter starts awake. It’s nothing but morning traffic.

(Peter has nightmares too.)

 

“Was she really the girl he thought she was?” Elizabeth asks one day, over early coffee.

Kate Moreau was many things. Peter can’t know all of them. But he knows enough to shake his head. “No,” he says. “She wasn’t. But it doesn’t mean he loved her any less.”

“He’s a dreamer,” Elizabeth muses. “And such a romantic. Gosh, I hope he gets through this. It’s a good thing he has you.”

“Because I’m not a dreamer?” Peter demands.

Elizabeth covers his hand in hers. “Look around,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to be. He does. _That’s_ why he needs you.”

 

He tells Sara to cut Neal a break. There’s kids at stake. Let it go.

_Let him go._

“You can’t keep doing these stupid things, Neal. Not everyone is going to be as understanding as Sara Ellis.”

“Peter, you would call her _understanding_?”

“I saw pictures of the plane, afterwards,” Peter says. There’s no easier way to broach this. “I imagine you found a way to see it too.”

“Not much left,” Neal answers. He turns away, so Peter can’t see his face, but his voice is suddenly hoarse.  

“Just us,” Peter says. “We’re still here, Neal. Me, and Mozzie, and El—”

“Alex said the same thing,” Neal says, with half a laugh. He turns back. His eyes are red; the laugh is not convicing.

“Smart girl.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s a sharp one.”

It’s time to go home. The sun is setting. El’s probably setting the table. Peter pauses before he walks out. “You’re still here, too,” he says. “And I know that probably feels like a curse to you—but the rest of us are glad.”

“Thanks, Peter. I wish I could be too.” Neal walks out, lifts his hand in farewell, and doesn’t look back. Peter stays a moment longer, trying not to read the words left unsaid.

Because a part of him knows that Neal is thinking, _if only he had run._


End file.
